Why can't I just take MAI WAIFU on a date?
by Gensh
Summary: Extra chapters for the Take the Series. No particular order, published infrequently. Will take topic suggestions in reviews.
1. Babydaddy of Chaos

The Lion looked down on the ruins. He was too late. Much too late. This was not the time to have left Anor Londo. Still, it was what the Great Lord would have wanted, what the young Lord would have wanted, and most importantly, it was the least he felt he could do.

How long ago had it been that this fate had begun? Was it so close that he could have stopped it, could have saved them had he left sooner? Was it that night so long ago, before the Flame destroyed Ilyon? It was custom that the Dragonslayers wore full helmets so that they might never show weakness. They thought it so that they would not disgrace their Captain, but in truth, it was the opposite.

The Lion roared so that the cavern walls shook, casting his sculpted helm to the poisoned earth. Countless bestial demons emerged from their hiding places, awakened by the red-hot rage, as if the Bed of Chaos were loosed once more. Worry lined the knight-captain's fair face. His red eyes were sunken for lack of sleep, and as was increasingly becoming the case, he hadn't the luxury of time to shave. His high scarlet ponytail was matted from sweat and grime, no longer a brilliant plume.

With his sturdy dragonslayer spear, forged of mighty titanite to pierce scales of stone, he had no trouble tearing through demon hide, no matter how thick. Lightning flashed, and mighty bolts tore through meat and marble, shattering what was left of the fallen city. After an hour or so, there was nothing left of the demons. More would inevitably creep out of the sealed dome, but for now, the upper ruins were purged of the twisted life. The cold and noble Captain Ornstein of Gwyn's Knights stood alone covered in blood and hardened magma, roaring for more.

Hands shaking, he sat amongst the corpses and drew a roll of parchment from his belt. He read it again. He started to put it back, but then he read it yet again. The last words of a Daughter who would never know her father.

* * *

"My what?!" the young man snarled.

"If you would allow me continue, dearest-"

"Thou speakest of intimacy which dideth not occur!"

"You don't remember that passionate night when Ilyon burned above us?"

"My brothers canneth attest they and I fought the blazes while they yet burned!"

"Yes, oh, that was it," the woman moaned sensuously. "That passion. That desperate need to save everyone. I had thought of it before, but that was when I knew you would be the perfect father."

"Then tellest me when I lay with you!"

"Oh, Ornstein, if only you had a sense of humor… or a sex drive."

The Witch of Izalith, one of the Lords who seized the Flame for themselves, stood opposite a young soldier on a vast field of ash. She licked her plump lips as she spoke, the only part of her visible beneath her fanciful robes of black silk and gold. Still, a rather distinct bump caused the loose fabric to tent. The youth was fair-skinned and fiery-haired and -eyed, but his face already had lines of worry. Much of his own body was covered in heavy brass plate, and he gripped a simple spear in one hand defensively.

In the hollows beneath the archtrees, the peoples of Flame lived apart. The burning and collapse of the City of Fire and its Tower of Flame had shattered the trust once shared by the former pygmies. The soldier knew his Lord did not blame either of the others, but in the eyes of the people, it would be tantamount to treason. For the young prince's tutor to do so was unspeakable, yet he could not refuse such a distinct summons.

"As much as I wish we could have made this little one… naturally…" the Witch continued, patting her belly, "her origin lies elsewhere."

"Then how?!"

"Oh, hold your enthusiasm," she pouted. "I won't be able to bear it if you keep it up."

The soldier's eyebrows twitched.

"Even _I_ ," the Witch chuckled, "cannot create life from nothing. I could double-down – truly be vain and conceive my Daughters by myself – but that's boring. There's no spice to be had, arguing with doppelgangers of oneself. So I decided to find fathers. Only the best for my girls!

Now, of course, I have a bit of a reputation," she said, waggling her hips, "and no one wishes to have illegitimate children, even if they would be perfectly cared for. I was forced to use other means. In your case, my beloved Ornstein, I made the seed from your beautiful hair. Do you think our Daughter will have her father's hair? I certainly hope so."

The soldier clutched at his wild, tall ponytail in bewilderment. The Witch stepped forward to feel it as well, but he barred her path with his spear.

"Why," he growled, "I prithee tell me, didst thou reveal to me alone this _violation_?"

The Witch smiled sadly.

"We are all liars now, Ornstein. Pitiful creatures of Want, grand though we are. You've seen the beginnings of it, haven't you? How Gwyn's friends and family bicker over who is to rule what. They invent glories for themselves and think nothing of the war that is to come.

You are a rare sort, dear Ornstein. Your lies are honest. Always the model by which Gwyn's soldiery is judged, yet that model is a lie. You wear a mask to hide your fangs and stout armor that won't rattle when you quiver with rage. You know of zeal but also of restraint.

I'll offer you this once, though I know you won't accept. Join me. Become my consort, and be free of the burdens which you will surely bear."

"Thou explainest nothing and offerest insult to my Lord. It is my honor to tutor the young prince, yet thou insist thou bearest my child and thus I should join thee. Thou art mad."

"That you already have experience in child-rearing was quite appealing, true, but at heart, it is because I can trust you, Ornstein. I believe I can trust Gwyn, but I also know he trusts in turn those he should not. I tell you alone that this child is yours because we will soon face dangers we may not be strong enough to overcome. If I do not survive, I can trust you watch out for them – for your Daughter and for all my girls, born and unborn."

* * *

The Dragonslayer rumbled with self-loathing. The Witch had been terribly wrong about a great deal of things. He had been too busy to visit when the birth of the new princess of Izalith was announced. As soldiers became Knights and princesses became Witches in their own right, he saw the girls only occasionally and in formal capacity. When the war with the dragons rose, they acted in union, and not one of them stood out.

He became the Lion, Captain of the Knights, Chief of the Dragonslayers, First of the Four, and Right Hand of the War God. He hardly had time to think of them. Yet from the start, he admitted, he had unconsciously paid close attention to their individual accomplishments. The socialites of Anor Londo praised his ability to diplomatically remember what each was know for and turned to him for advice. He was not so selfless.

It was a sin, the likes of which even wicked Velka didn't know. A celibate, holy knight dedicated only to his Lord and his duty, had a secret child. He took undue pride in his Daughter's accomplishments. He could never speak of his joy; that was the penance he must endure for such a crime. He bore it with the dignity he did all things, but when his fellow Knights vanished into the Dark of Oolacile, his Lord passed on, and the prince he had accompanied from infancy was exiled, he could not bear the thought of losing his secret treasure as well.

With a crack of thunder, Ornstein burst from the ruins and into the dilapidated bell tower. It had been built after the fall of Izalith to warn of demon attacks, but in the wake of Gwynael's exile, he had trouble explaining its need. The demons were suppressed, surely, thought the nobles of Anor Londo. The Dragonslayer could hardly gainsay them when in truth, much of the funding dedicated to the tower was solely to support the hidden Daughters of Chaos. It had been many years since the last shipment, but he had recently received a letter in their secret code, a final farewell.

" _We will soon be little better than beasts which feed on humanity. If the fates are kind, we will perish before we are consumed by Chaos or driven mad by its hunger._ "

Ornstein had descended to the wastes below the holy capital as fast as his feet could carry him. The tower was empty, and the ruins held only demons. Where could they be? A scream rang out from above. Trailing streams of lightning, the Dragonslayer bounded up the immense supports of Londo's wall.

He leapt across the toxic swamp to the rattling shantytown. The wretched humans which lived among the waste of the Burg above were all screaming now, but only a few of them could be seen actively fleeing. The demigod sprinted past them, careful not to put so much of his weight down as to break the flimsy planks which formed the floor of the town. Entering an enormous stone tube which formed some inscrutable part of the sewage system, he found the interior criss-crossed with the web of an arachne demon. The poisoned and deformed residents of what the people of Anor Londo called "Blighttown" hung limply from the webs.

Several of them were already dead, desiccated husks from which all vitality had been drained. Glancing upward, he saw the demon, about to stab its proboscis-tongue into its next victim. The Dragonslayer's jump shattered the platform on which he had stood, and his sturdy spear shattered the demon's back. The pair fell through the rickety platforms, eventually breaking against the iron grate at the bottom.

"Quelaag! What dost thou think thou art doing?!" he roared.

The woman springing from the demon's head had clearly seen better days. Her eyes were red and sunken, if they could be seen at all beneath the rain of wild hair that fell about most of her upper body. She was pale and thin from malnourishment to the point of visible ribs. Even with the corpses above, she'd not eaten, clenching their humanity in a trembling fist.

"They owe it to her!" she screamed madly. "She saved them, so it's alright if I kill a few to save her!"

"Calm thyself!" Ornstein snarled, twisting his spear in her spider abdomen.

The demoness screeched in pain but relaxed, breathing unevenly.

"Sir Ornstein," she said slowly, having trouble keeping her vision focused. "I hate for you to find me in such condition. We have to hurry!" she said suddenly, panic taking over her voice. "Quelaav won't make it! I need more humanity!"

"I said calm thyself! What hast happened to Quelaav? What of thy other sisters?"

"Quelaav drained the blight," Quelaag whined. "It's killing her so fast! I bound her to a bonfire, but it's not working!"

"That ist impossi- Nevermind. Here. I had brought a small amount of that vile substance, but I see it is not enough."

He held up a sealed jar within which a number of the sprites squirmed uneasily.

"Thou must first promise that this – this behavior – will never happen again. Art thou a proud witch of Izalith and dragonslayer or a mere beast to be hunted by Lloyd and his church?"

She stiffened.

"I am… the second princess of Izalith… and should act as such."

He brushed the hair out of her face and grabbed at his own. He tugged free the old ribbon that held up his proud plume, letting it fall about him as a blood-colored cascade. Tersely, he tied her hair into a familiar ponytail.

"Good. Dost not forget thou art more than demon. No matter how dire the situation, one must always keepeth his covenants. Such is all that keepeth us from falling into the Dark. Now, what of thine other sisters?"

* * *

"A thought hath come to me, Captain," Artorias said suddenly.

"A miracle if there ever wert one."

"Uncalled-for, Captain," Artorias continued, "I just-"

"Dad, look out!"

Artorias howled in agony as his kart was blasted with lightning and shrunk.

"Hmph," Gough muttered. "I have a feeling the Captain is only bad at this game because those placing poorly can cast lightning."

"May I speak, or will you all interrupt me at every turn?" the Wolf Knight chuckled.

"As long as you are content with green shells at every turn, old friend!" the giant retorted, blasting his kart and taking the lead.

"Lords, fine! That Fire Keeper girl wast asking what I knew about the Prophecy earlier. For the museum. I wasn't helpful, but I learned a lot."

"Two miracles in one day-"

"Stoppeth that! And why art thou holding that blue shell whilst Gough holdeth the lead?"

"Why canst thou not keep thine eyes on thine own screen?"

"Fine! Captain, hast thou ever noticed how similar thou art to Quelaag? You were both guarding a princess which was some sort of secret at some of the highest and lowest parts of Lordran, you were both the last active member of a group that hunted dragons, you both put the needs of those you were protecting before your own, and you were both the leader of the defense in your city before it fell."

"Those are all common details, Artorias," Ornstein grumbled as his kart fell off the track for the umpteenth time. "Next thou wilt insist Alvina is my sister since we are both cats who guarded ruins."

"I didn't know thou hadst any family, Captain," Artorias snickered. "Ah, speaking of Quelaag, hast thou heard she'st pregnant?"

"WHAT?!"


	2. Dark Souls: TNG

"By my soul, open the passage to Flame."

The split Life Lord spoke in unison, hands clasped over the scorched basin which had once held the lofty title of Lordvessel. Worn runes blurred by the passage of time flared to clarity as the ancient stone doors opened for the first time since the second Linking of the Fire. A ghostly white light and primordial fog poured from the descending passage as the tireless specters of the four hundred and ninety-nine remaining Black Knights marched across on their eternal watch. Their souls had been dedicated to fighting Dark and Chaos, and now they turned their heads to face a greater Chaos than they ever had in life. All the nobility of Izalith, Empire of Entropy, had gathered at Firelink Altar.

The Chaos Queen and her consort, the Chosen Undead, stood at the forefront, their divided Lord Soul shining in harmony. Yet before them, gazing down the path the Lords of Cinder had once been fated to travel, stood a young boy. He was fair, with sharp features and long black hair. Intelligent eyes shone imperial purple as the spirits watched him. He wore gold-hemmed black robes of demon-spider silk as was the custom of the royal house, and in his hand, he gripped a unique staff. It was heavy, an archtree sapling cut down in its prime and affixed with a ring of holy brass around which six smaller rings jingled.

A final gift, which he might grow into. The coupled Lord approached.

"Nothing I can say will change your mind," the Empress said. "So know this. No matter the burden, no matter the hardship, we will be there for you. Say the word, and we will break the world itself."

The Consort-Prophet placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You know, we've never been more proud of you. All my life, people had told me I would be something special. All my life, things just fell into my lap. You _earned_ this. That's special."

The boy nodded. A girl approached. She was was much like him, only covered in armored plates, and with too many eyes and arms.

"Don't you dare come back until you're as good an arcanist as I'm going to be a knight."

"Oh, sister, it is you who should take worry."

He smiled a beautiful, fake smile.

"Farewell, Mother, Father, everyone."

The first prince of Izalith turned and entered the light, the doors closing behind him and sealing with the power of the Lords. With each footfall, a golden rune glowed, the corresponding Black Knight's soul emboldened with an additional seal. Though they did not hesitate in their march, they nearly halted his progress several times, confused by an existence such as himself. Despite his age, he had no fear of the spirits. He could cast them away, or if he was feeling cruel, bind them to his purpose.

He had learned the ways of ghosts from the last Sealers. He could touch spirits with the Dark within him and shatter them with an ancient curse of the Scaleless. He could hide from their ethereal senses, cloaked in souls. He could banish them with the ringing of sacred bells or drown them in the tides of the cosmos. Yet, he would do none of these things, for understanding was the mark of a master.

The stair ended at a white shore of ash. A great inky sea of Dark lapped at its shores, and overhead a sea of stars. As he looked on, animating forces rolled through the dust, taking human shape for a moment before blowing away. The Abyss ate away at the shore even as more ash blew onto the dunes from afar in a never-ending cycle. In the far distance, dawn was breaking, the sun seated not upon the horizon but atop a tower of wax.

The boy approached the shore and watched the indiscernible, undulating creatures beneath the inky blackness. Sometimes they clawed the surface, horrid tendrils taking the shape of mortal hands as they struggled to break free. As he drew closer, they reached for him, some trying to drag him under and others just desperate for attention. He did not fear, for understanding was the mark of a master, and his eyes were open. He touched his sounding staff to the Abyssal sea and shook it once, emitting a tone like a mournful church bell.

He strode across the sea's surface like a black mirror, the monsters trapped beneath the long ripples emanating from the point where his staff had struck. Some of the creatures lashed at the barrier, but he repulsed them with successive harmonic tones. They hissed and spat but slowly drifted into gentle slumber. As the beasts below quieted, the ones above called in response, singing arias that rattled the sympathetic links of his staff. He raised the rod in salute, and they bowed in return as best their tendrilled forms could.

The tower of wax was closer now, and he could better make out its features. In truth, it wasn't wax at all. It was a growing archtree bleached white and melted by the Fire atop it. The branches all formed about the sun like a goblet even as they dripped and fused. It was darker at its base – pitch black where its roots drank deep from the Abyss.

As a living organism, the tower had no door, but the boy's eyes were open, and understanding was the mark of a master. He could not have come here if he had not already seen the Truth of the Pthumerian Queen. From the peerless sorcerer of Olaphis, he had learned the secrets of shaping souls. The union of these arcane secrets combined with his own demonic gift of warped flesh made creatures like clay in his hands. He traced a great arch with his staff, and the stone wood gave way like gelatin.

The hollow within was utterly dark, an Abyss untainted as the sea was. It should have snuffed out his light and life, but he had no fear and the blessing of its Augur. The teachings of the Darkdiver guided him well in this sightless realm. Where countless Undead had descended into this peerless Dark to do battle with its four masters, the boy ascended to the tower's peak without stumbling. As he neared the top, he chimed his staff again and again, casting back the ever-increasing heat with sound.

With great effort, he merged from an insect-eaten hole in the top of the tree. He stood at the top of the chalice shape, watching as it ran over with ash. The sun bled white, the particles cascading over a twisted straightsword and into the overfull goblet. The boy had seen many coiled swords before, but this was the first. The Lordsword.

Tempted as he was to take its hilt in hand, he dared not risk it. There lay the path of the Lord of Cinders. He looked about. Above, the sun swirled and churned unending. The tower seemed abandoned.

It attacked from below, a spectral maw rising from the ash to drag him down with its grinding teeth. He beat the dust with his staff, sending warding pulses through it. The boy's skin twisted and molded like a clay figure the artist had tired of. As a miniature sandworm, he stopped resisting and instead allowed himself to be dragged downward. He twisted through the ash, trying to crush his captor, but the spirit flitted away.

He followed it up into the light of the sun and unleashed a torrent of lighting. The hovering monster spasmed as the holy power ran through its Dark-warped body, but after a moment, the blast ceased having any effect. It was a horrid thing, a shadow made of twisting mouths and gnashing teeth. It should have been crippled by the Flame above, only the hissing mouths spat flame as they ground their fangs. Lightning tinged with the blue of the moon rather than the gold of the sun arced across them in cruel mockery.

The worm grew shorter and stockier, and a tiny stone dragon took its place. It charged into the air, hoping for the element of surprise, but the monster was too quick. The menagerie of teeth flitted away and raised its crude arms wide. The Dark rose from the bowels of the archtree and blotted out the sun. The boy's own flame began to flicker, and his demonic flesh instinctively reverted to its true form.

There he stood in the Dark, a mere child. He was afraid at last. Only, his fear of failure was greater than his fear of the beast before him. He gripped his staff tightly and stood on guard.

"IIIIIII know whhhhhat you are. I can ssssssmell it. What delicious humanity!"

The thing flickered and appeared behind him, placing a mouth-hand on his shoulder. He could feel it just barely beginning to suck the life out of him.

"So much! So much! This would destroy a normal human! You're practically a Fire Keeper! Is this the power of a half-demon?"

The boy fell to his knees, not begging but supplicating.

"Lord Beatrice, please make me your apprentice, as is dictated by the Rule of Two."

* * *

"Again."

The pitching machine rattled as six baseballs were loaded and immediately fired. Six bangs followed, then six metallic clinks, then six rips. The balls fell to the stone floor in tatters. Six blades clanked again as springs propelled them backward, and they locked into place beneath pistol barrels.

"Again. Faster."

"Lucatiel, stop. You will run her ragged."

Asura's breathing was already ragged, catching in her throat as sweat dripped down her face. Her stance wavered between focus and half-consciousness.

"She is strong enough."

"Do not pretend this is for her own good. You are remembering what you and your own brother endured. It is different now."

"Is it really, Maria? Because if I'm not wrong, these children are going to grow up to fight _gods_!"

"I have killed a god before… it is easier than you could ever fear."

The two women fighting looked as if they had been stolen from a painting, beautiful and fair. Yet both were dressed as a warrior, feathers in their caps. They stared at one another, neither willing to budge.

"I can do more, Lady Maria," Asura panted.

"See? Even a child can see there is no time to rest."

"It always starts that way. I can only pray she does not burn up in her own zeal."

"Now you're the one speaking from experience."

"Yes, but I admit that."

The knightess dropped more baseballs into the machine, hurtling them at the princess with enough force to kill a human child. Normally, a batter would stand at a proper striking range, wearing a helmet. Facing it directly, it practically amounted to a cannon. Yet despite her exhaustion, Asura didn't miss a ball. One by one, she shot them to break their momentum, then tore them to shreds with her blades.

A hunter of beasts might wield a sword-pistol in one hand and a normal firearm in the other. An undead wanderer might wield a saber in either hand. For the future ruler of demonkind, nothing less than six bladed guns would do. Artorias' defeat had been the catalyst for those who fought monsters to abandon their shields and armor, but six weapons was a veritable shield of blades to complement a spider demon's natural armored plates. Only, it would require countless hours of practice to keep them from getting tangled in one another.

The princess' tutors could be no less than the best. As had her brother, she had learned the basics from many – acrobatics from Uncle Kirk, parrying from Uncle Oscar, multi-weapon fighting from Knight Lautrec – but it would take a master to unify these teachings. Yet no single teacher could outshine Lucatiel and Maria together. Masters of similarly finessed fighting style in different eras, they constantly fought over the fine details. Now, they fought over how best to train their ward.

Unfortunately, Asura had inherited both her parents' impatience. She snarled and cast threads from her wrists, flicking more balls into the machine. Only, the webbing went in too. Instead of discrete baseballs, they stuck together, hurtling toward her as a flailing mass. Not expecting that, she hesitated.

Her teachers didn't. The mass had hardly left the machine before it clattered harmlessly against Lucatiel's shield. Asura herself was already out of harm's way, of course. Maria had swooped in and pulled her out of the way immediately, body turned to block the projectile in case it veered wide.

"Maybe it is time for a rest," Lucatiel sighed. "You're dismissed until tomorrow, Asura. Maybe speak with your uncle Quella about patience before coming."

The girl groaned.

"Not uncle Quella…"

"I will not let you speak ill of him," Maria scolded. "If all the world were as kind as he, then we would have no need for such training."

The princess sighed and rolled her eyes. She slipped her weapons into the awkward lattice of scabbards on her back and headed to the edge of the circular platform that was the training field. At her approach, a disc floated to the edge, and when she stepped on, it promptly whisked her away. The works of the Chaos Capital were magnificent even to the gods who had witnessed the heights of Anor Londo.

For one who had been born after this renaissance, it was nothing special. The imperial crown princess took many things for granted, but she had only just realized her twin brother was the most vital of these things. The inhabitants of Izalith were few, and there were only four in her generation – now three. Jacquelyn was several years older, and they had never gotten along to begin with. That left no one to play with but creepy cousin Mergo, who was out of the question.

It would be months at least before her father's next trip to the outside world. She wondered how her friend Gol was doing. Surely, Astora was a more interesting place to live, always on the brink of war with Thorolund as it was. She bounced anxiously and complained about how long the floating platform was taking, ignorant of the countless Undead who had crossed the lava below on foot. At last, it came to rest at the outer gate of the main castle complex, carved into and built out of the cave walls.

Though the royal family and the apparatus of government was housed in the hanging palace far above, the fortress below was the closest thing to "town." As she'd gotten older, the adults had placed stupid restrictions on warping, so Aunt Laav couldn't just send her to Anor Londo any time she wanted. Worse, they'd done _something_ to the bonfires so she couldn't just forcibly use them by right of her bloodline anymore. They required tickets now, distributed by an automated system which restricted the number of bonfires that could be reached. She hated it.

Still, she "bought" for the cost of zero souls a round-trip ticket to the entrance of Anor Londo. Maybe Gough would be around. Worst case, she could spend the rest of the day with Fran and Joan, Father Gascoigne's daughters. Still, they were much older, prone to squabbling, and pathetic enough to get killed in an early area by big, slow enemies. Honestly, she hated them.

Passing through the bonfire, climbing the stairs, and crossing the courtyard, she was presented with the classic view of the city of the gods. No longer bound in perpetual dusk, the noon sun gleamed overhead. In Izalith, where only demons and Undead lived, and lava lit the halls, night and sleep were rarely-encountered concepts. Shading her eyes with one hand, she looked down on the new development with some interest. Much of the lower city was finishing completion after its total destruction in the combat between dragons.

Izalith's design had been concocted by the sci-fi addled mind of its king and the insane God of Invention. There lived only the mad and the outcast, refugees from other times and places gathered by the Prophet-King. Anor Londo instead rebuilt for a new era. Those pious and seeking to remove themselves from the world, those seeking refuge from persecution, and those who still held the fallen Great Lord's edicts above those of the younger gods were its inhabitants. It grew larger slowly and steadily, a true city rather than a base of operations for a few heroes and their war machines.

She had been mulling over the difference as she waited for the elevator to rise. Far before it had reached the top, she caught a whiff of something, an overwhelming scent of ozone. As she turned, an ash-covered crown rose above the tiles of the courtyard. Seven hands reached for their weapons as crown prince and crown princess stared at one another, the air heavy with fire and lightning.

* * *

Through the fog, Pontiff Sulyvahn stood ready, one sword alight with Profaned fire and the other glimmering with the dim light of a consumed moon. A figure in midnight blue shrouds and silver bangles passed through the mist. The Pontiff wore a mask of brass roots, and the stranger wore a silver visor with a canid snout, but their eyes met nonetheless.

"Ah," Sulyvahn rumbled with a voice like rolling soot. "My long-awaited guest. How uncanny. My knights are usually so reliable in their patrols. Yet here you are.

To sneak into my city was one thing – that you have reached me here should have been a great surprise. Yet it is plain as moonlight now that you are here. I could not see it. I had to smell it. That scent like precious incense.

Divine blood."

He quickly genuflected but did not set aside his gleaming blades.

"Your lordship, I bid you greeting to the holy city of Irithyll. My humble name is Sulyvahn, and it is my pleasure to be Pontiff by the grace of Lord Gwyndolin. Please, allow this servant to find you quarters after what has surely been a long journey."

The god only drew a pair of long curved swords, one black and the other silver.

"Please," Sulyvahn said, a smirk heard in his voice, "I wish only to serve divinity."

The god choked, trying not to chuckle at the old pun.

"I'm docking points for that," Ciaran's voice crackled through an earpiece.

"Oh, honeybee," Artorias whined.

"It is bad enough that she must enter by the front door. With no approach to grade I must have less tolerance for mistakes made in the rest of this examination."

"I must agree with Artorias this once," Ornstein said sternly. "As with ourn selves, morale ist more important to irregulars than discipline. Allowest the girl have her fun."

"Captain…" Ciaran said slowly. "I had thought this was a private channel."

"I had thought the contrary," the Lion pondered. "Why-"

"Can everyone stop talking in my ear so I can hear Sully?" Jacquelyn hissed into her mouthpiece.

She had remained on guard while the Pontiff's speech rambled on indefinitely. Now, he realized she hadn't been listening.

"Oh, have I been boring you?" Sulyvahn said with mock politeness. "Allow me to make things more interesting. Perhaps a spot of sport!"

He lunged forward, taking a room-clearing swing with his flaming sword. The goddess dropped low, nearly to all fours, as she dashed under the blade. As the Pontiff swept his smaller sword up defensively, she gave it a push with her own paired blades, driving it into his shoulder.

"Stop hitting yourself!" she taunted as she quickstepped out of the way of his defensive swipe.

He thrust after her, and she gently pushed the strike away with one blade, sliding her foot forward and sweeping the second across his chest. With a roar, the Pontiff began his whirling flurry of swings, but the goddess subtly dodged or parried each one, striking him again and again. Though a dual blade style traditionally eschewed defense in favor of rapid attack, the young demigod blended the two flawlessly. Those who had taken up blades in her father's name had abandoned defense since it had seemingly failed him. The man himself did not think so.

If the days of warriors bearing shields had come to an end, then so be it. Defense was still the greatest asset of a man-at-arms. At the Wolf Knight's behest, Jacquelyn had studied the movements of the greatest beast hunters. At the Hornet's, she had studied their tricks and means of stalking their prey. Dodge into attacks, parry and riposte heavy strikes, always have room to evade an unexpected burst.

Cautious stamina management meant that even the Pontiff's aggressive, rapid strikes were easily evaded. Not once did her breath catch in her throat. Another thrust, and she whipped both blades up the Pontiff's robes, holy silver and humanity-warped iron tearing through a body reinforced with Profaned Flame and the Deep called by a wicked moon. The Pontiff fell to his knees as his impotent rage drove his humanity wild.

With perfect calm, the young knightess took one final slash and backed away before tainted blood spewed out from Sulyvahn's back. Roots in the shape of wings flexed behind him. The demigod smirked.

"Does this make you a Moonlight Butterfly?"

Artorias clapped through the radio.

"Focus!" Ornstein roared. "Levity ist well and good, but thine foe wilt soon replicate himself! Be cautious, for battling multiple foes ist among the greatest of challenges!"

Jacquelyn grunted.

"Ugh. Don't remind me. I hate fighting you and Smough."

Despite the Pontiff's more powerful form, the demigod cut through it quickly. So empowered, Sulyvahn used more grand attacks which left him vulnerable. With each such attack, she unleashed a flurry of blows which would overwhelm any lesser foe. With a final stroke, the Pontiff dissolved into souls, and the memory faded, leaving Jacquelyn standing in the Tomb of the Great Souls. The marble statue of Sulyvahn loomed over her, clutching genuine copies of the Profaned Greatsword and Greatsword of Judgment, yet another duplicate of his soul flickering in the statue's heart.

The Gravelord stood nearby, leaning comfortably on a cane carved from a dragon's bone.

"Ah, welcome back," he said pleasantly. "I take it your trial was successful?"

Jacquelyn nodded, hanging her swords across her back.

"You bet," she said, grinning wolfishly. "Cleared Irithyll without taking a hit."

"Oh, splendid! I shall have to prepare some sort of reward for when such achievements occur."

"I wish I could say the same," the Gravelady sighed.

She had wandered into the hall from the far end, countless infant skeletons following at her heels and riding on the trail of her gown. The knightess shrugged.

"I had practice. I figure the real deal's going to be tougher. Not just me waltzing in and backstabbing an entire city."

She unslung one of her swords and used it to pick at her teeth.

"As someone who knew both, who do you think is going to be harder to take down? Flann or Lloyd?"

* * *

"Art thou aware of the full implications of such? Thou wouldst be a political hostage, a foreign prince in a gilded cage. Thy life and thy fate wouldst be in mine hands to do with as I please. Thou wouldst see thy parents and kin only rarely and at great distance. In mind and spirit, thou wouldst be mine to mold."

"Brother!"

"It is the untarnished truth, untainted by emotion and presumptions based on debts past. I shall grant the young prince's request only if he doth understand fully what he asketh. Such is the justice of the Dark Sun."

Though the grand keep of the Great Lord had been rebuilt, it had changed a great deal. Gone were the ancient reliefs depicting the oh-so-wise councils of the gods who had abandoned their posts. The statues of the exiled God of War had returned, and with the knowledge that the three lost knights had not fallen in battle, their statues were raised again while those of the wicked Executioner were torn down. A new pantheon was forming around the all-too-modest Dark Sun, and the iconography of the cities above and below came to reflect this. Marble and gold and divine craftsmen gave way to common stone wrought by mortal men.

Though rightful King of the Gods, the older and wiser Gwyndolin sat on a spindly throne made of black iron mass-produced in Brume. To his right was a much more dainty chair lovingly carved from white ash where his adoptive sister Yorshka sat. The enormous divan which had once belonged to the Princess of Sunlight had gone. In time, the once-lonely god came to admit that even she had abandoned him and the cause of Flame. Even the basest Chaos Demon was not so low.

So the King of the Gods considered seriously the suggestion of the teen demon prince. Though the gods owed the demons a great debt, their faithful would not see it for anything but perversion. Yet if he held a prince, their relationship would take on a different appearance.

"I understand, Lord Gwyndolin," the boy said, his voice quiet and distantly echoing. "Her Majesty, Auntie Quelaag is against it, as you would expect. Mother and Father approve and insist it is my decision to make. Please, take me as your apprentice. There is no other with such mastery over the Lunar forces who was not driven mad."

At face value, the demon prince looked entirely human – for a definition of human. He was clearly Pthumerian, with the long limbs and pale flesh of those who had long shunned the sun and supped upon the blood of distant gods. In this, he was not so different from the nearby deity, cursed in the womb by one such nightmare. The God of the Moon's upper face was concealed by his solar crown, but it was without so much as eye sockets; the demon prince's black eyes were similarly without sight. Yet one was clearly monstrous and the other a beast unseen.

Snakes writhed from the outlet of the deity's gown where legs ought to be, but he was the lesser monster. His face was eyeless to allow his eyes turn about and look inward. The Dark Sun had always seen the horrors that lurked beyond the edge of Flame, yet one knelt before him. A writhing abomination, cephalopodian in shape but without a defined form. There was a distinct scent of incense which only the deity could smell.

It was as if the boy's true form was a creature of formless smoke. Incense was offered to the gods, but here it was if the incense had created a god of wicked dreams. This was the culmination of the Age of Deep Sea which had been forestalled by the Prophet. Mergo, son of Oedon. The god of Flame instinctively shuddered as he looked over the god of the Deep.

Gwyndolin felt the presence of his younger sister, always sympathetic, no matter the cause. His faithful Vicar awaited his response, though he knew she too would sympathize with one of the gods she had formerly served. He sighed as quietly as he could.

"So be it. Thou shalt be both guest and prisoner of this court. I shall be both thy liege lord and thy principle educator. Mine orders shalt be absolute. The bonfires shalt be forbidden thee, and I will weave enchantments so that thou mayst not escape thy cage through the medium of dream.

In return, thou shalt learn the ways of a deity. The bearing, the etiquette, the duties. Thou shalt learn the true history of this world and of the Flame. This compact wilt be signed not in blood, as is the way of the Deep, but in souls, which are the fuel for Flame."

The King of the Gods rose from his throne and extended a pale hand. Wisps of blue flowed about it, gleaming with the light of the Moon, both sorcerous and divine. A creature with a twisted lineage, Mergo had no trouble replicating the display. They grasped hands firmly to seal the contract, souls interweaving as they touched. The dream began.

They stood opposite in a long hallway. The moon shone down on them, and Gwyndolin drew its light along his sun-shaped bow.

"If thou art to be my pupil, thou must have the fortitude required of an illusionist. Thou shalt learn, or thou shalt break."

The moonlight arrow shot far too quickly, piercing the boy's heart. His very life flickered, and he saw what was both the distant past and the distant future. Ancient Pthumeru which had not yet been built stood proud even as it committed horrible sacrifice to draw the attention of the Formless God of Blood. He saw his mother's sins and the atrocities involved in his conception. Even as his tainted blood told him it was a dream within a dream, he knew it was true.

He wrested his mind forward, to his own history. His mother had already paid for her crimes, condemned to everlasting life as a moving corpse which bore a dead child. She had changed and was a kinder person. His adoptive father brought out the best in her.

"That lineage ist not without dire Sin."

Now, it was his grandmother he saw. The hubris in acting for a greater good. The birth of Chaos and the fall of Izalith. With only the best of intentions, the Witch of Izalith had caused more pain and suffering than the Pthumerian Queen had brought about willingly. The boy centered himself again.

His aunt and uncle had bent that power to their wills and fulfilled the Witch's original purpose. They had been more cautious and had prepared for the worst. Self-awareness was the key. Insight.

Mergo broke from the dream and rushed down the hallway. In reality, it would have seemed that the boy flew everywhere, but there could be no such concealment in the dream; he was propelled along by thrashing tendrils of iron-tinged smoke. He twisted in midair to avoid the next shot, but in a dream, there was nothing to say arrows couldn't curve mid-flight. This time, he was struck by a vision of the consumed seekers of moonlight. The Logan and the Crystal Sages, the Pontiff and his knights, Aldrich and the Deacons, Oceiros and the Drakebloods, Ludwig and the Church Hunters.

A child of the cosmos, Mergo could always see the guiding moonlight, but now he saw its tricks as well. He saw where it eluded pursuers and where he needed to look away, lest it boil his blood and drive him mad. As he broke from the dream, he saw the path of the next arrow even before it struck him. He was too slow to avoid it, but it was no longer hidden from his eyes.

At last, he saw the horrors of the Scaleless thing which endured through the Ages and of the Darkmoon which lay in hiding. The moon illuminated his path now, and he saw how men became something Greater. The metamorphosis from hollow to man to dragon to Great One. He awoke and followed the moonlight to its origin, avoiding crossing it directly all the while. When he at last reached the God of Moonlight, the outer dream broke as well, and they stood in the throneroom once more.

"So endeth the first lesson," Gwyndolin said quietly. "I am sure thou hast much to think on. Rest, then visit with mineself when the moon is risen."


	3. Secret bases weren't added until Gen 3

"Lex, for Flame's sake, stop playing that game! I leave you with the children for three hours, and look at what has become of them!"

Nothing looked amiss about the demon toddlers. Asura was chewing on something while drawing how much bigger she'd make the castle when she was empress. Of course, having six arms meant she used up crayons six times as quickly. The shapeshifting Cambion had the lower body of a goat and was trying desperately to stand up.

"They're fine! They were even watching me for a while! They like hearing Artorias' voice come out of the speakers."

"Artorias is a damned addict, and if Ciaran can't stop him, then that's her problem! Off! Before I cut the power!"

"Fine, fine. Later, Arty! Spidey bridey says I'm done for today."

"Ah, but we are so close!" the Wolf Knight's voice crackled over the sound of gunfire. "Who will be my support in taking the next point?"

"I dunno. Maybe try tricking Ornstein into getting really involved in clan leadership?"

"Aha! Clever! I shall see about it. Until next time, battle-brother."

"We never actually figured out if Chaos Marines still say that."

Quelaag looked at him expectantly.

"Anyway, later."

The Chosen Undead spun about in his chair. It was distinct, made from demon bone and spider silk to resemble a mesh office chair from his original world. The computer itself, however, was the genuine article. While he had brought enough reference materials for the wayward God of Invention to reproduce much of the modern world, so much study took time. As such, most of the electronic infrastructure of Lordran had been imported from the fabled land of Luthor.

As a former gamer, the King-Consort of Izalith had wasted no time in exploiting this and using an arcane combination of magic tools to cobble together the universe's first interdimensional internet connection. This cut down considerably on the number of times they had to dig Sen out from under a book avalanche, but it also had a number of problems. One of which was that Artorias was a sucker for team-based shooters.

"Wait, so why are you mad at me?"

"The children. Whom you were supposed to watch for a measly three hours."

"I'm watching them! What's wrong?"

"Cambion is stuck between forms, and have you _no idea_ what Asura is chewing on?"

"Oh, I thought Cam had just turned into a satyr."

"A what?"

"Half-man, half-goat."

"Which he has never seen."

"Point. What's wrong with Asura? There's nothing around here that she shouldn't be eating."

"That's Mergo's finger."

"How-?"

"I don't know, but you absolutely should."

"Maybe he just left it? The kid has more than enough limbs."

"That is beside the point."

"I mean, that's how kids learn. My brother ate a spider when he was a baby, and he learned not to do it ever again. I never learned that, and now I do it every Friday night."

The demon queen flushed with a variety of emotions and sighed.

"I think you need to take this a little more seriously."

"Alright," he said, sobering quickly. "Come on, Prince Charming, Hime-chan, let's get you cleaned up."

The toddlers turned at hearing their nicknames. The first prince wobbled around, having trouble standing on hooves when he had only just learned to stand on toes. The crown princess remained seated, waiting expectantly.

"Look," the queen said, pointedly, "she knows you're just going to walk over and get her if she refuses to come herself. Asura. Here. Now."

The armor-plated demon rose, and with all the unintentional swagger of a toddler who hasn't quite mastered balance, made her way to her parents. The shapeshiftier had given up on walking altogether. Still stuck mid-transformation, he simply added snakes to the mix and crawled across the room as a hideous cross between a Capra demon and the Dark Sun.

"Come on, Cam. You don't want to be like Gwyndolin. His KD is trash."

Quelaag sighed, "Dare I ask how you managed to rope the fetishistically-dutiful King of the Gods into these games?"

"He still has that complex, so he likes the games where half the playable characters are strong, attractive women. And there's the fashion component."

"Oh, how I envy Priscilla right now."

"And she envies you, but _Wife Swap_ is terrible television."

He crouched down to his children and drew a brass bell from a belt pouch. He held it over Cambion and rang it once. A golden wave and even tone pulsed through the room as his own magic overwhelmed the child's, forcing the horrible mish-mash of monstrous traits to coalesce into what seemed to be a human toddler.

"There. Now, come on, Hime-chan. Give me your cousin's finger. You know, if we find that finger Gwyndolin lost in the cut content for Dark 3, we can start a collection of severed god fingers. Anyway, Asura, spit it out. It's not really seafood, no matter how many times I make that joke."

"Asura. Spit it out."

Commands from her father were more like suggestions, but the young princess knew better than to defy her mother. She looked terribly guilty with the clammy tentacle-like finger halfway hanging out of her fanged mouth. The precious old blood dripped from its shredded flesh, and even more splattered the floor as she quickly removed it and held it up awkwardly. Lex blanched a little and put it in a pouch.

"Well, this is going to be an awkward conversation with Yharnam."

He paused.

"Do I ever have non-awkward conversations with Yharnam?"

"Do you ever have non-awkward conversations with anyone?" Quelaag snapped. "Like the one we're having _right now_. Lex, I need you to focus."

He looked at her. There was genuine strain in her face. He glanced back to the computer screen.

"Right."

He shut it down and hefted both of his children into his arms, barely able to sustain the weight. The cleric staggered out of the room, then cast a burning seal on the door once his wife had followed.

"There. No games for one month."

"Don't you think learning self-control would be a better solution?" Quelaag sighed.

"This _is_ self-control. I need to get out of the habit first. Though I'll need to have Artorias pass along the message that I won't be around for a while. All right, kids! Who wants to go on a field trip?"

"Oh? You're not going to just call him?"

"Well, my plans for the day are shot now, so I might as well get some fresh air. You coming along for the ride? Maybe poke fun at how he plays like you fight?"

"No. Some of us actually have duties. Like making sure the children don't eat each others' fingers."

"Hey, I do stuff! Who do you think set all this up to begin with?"

He didn't like that look on her face.

"Okay, let's stop there. As a cleric and as a computer scientist, I have a more constructive, supporting role. I don't have the breeding or the practical experience to make the same administrative choices you do. My role is to build and to guide – and sometimes, that means hands-off. I'm not totally lazy. Just mostly. Watch this. Hey kids, who's your favorite Pokemon?"

"Mewtwo!"

"Haunter!"

"That's right, kids, Gen 1 forever. Why are they your favorites?"

"He's the strongest!" Asura roared triumphantly.

"He's funny and does cool things!" Cambion said, more collectedly but still excited.

"And they thought these out themselves. I put Pokemon on for them and then play my games while they're watching. Sometimes, they don't want to watch Pokemon. Sometimes, they play games with me. Sometimes, we even do educational things. I break out the chemistry set or whatever.

It's not that I don't understand what you're saying. I'm not the most attentive person in the world. But playing without adults interfering and figuring things out on my own was such an important part of my own childhood that I want to make sure these guys get to experience that too. Even if I am forcing my tastes on them by only importing 90s culture."

Quelaag sighed.

"Things will only get harder for them."

"But for now, they're fine. They're safe. There aren't any dragons or anything that could hurt them. Maybe a few severed fingers to chew on, but that's it. Even Gohan only trained when he was young because he was literally kidnapped and then trained. See what happened to him? Loser."

"This is how it always goes," Quelaag groaned. "You make some reasonable explanation for your behavior, finish it with some reference that you somehow expect me to recognize, and then you go back to doing the same thing. That door won't stay sealed for a month. I'll be impressed if it lasts a week."

"You want to be on that?"

"You make a game of everything, don't you?"

"I didn't hear a no."

"So be it, if that's what it takes to hold your attention once I've left the room."

"I'll go a month without my computer. You have to go a month without raising your voice. Loser can't use magic to cover up the Rat King's smell when we have that discussion next month."

"You act as if I am incapable of being furious with you quietly."

"Oh, I know the secret is that you're always angry, but I want to see if you can actively restrain the Hulk."

"Again with the references. Fine. There had best be a marked change in your behavior within the month, or you will find a marked change in your position."

With that, Quelaag turned to leave.

"One more thing before you go! Kids, who's your favorite demon queen?"

"Mommy!"

"David Bowie!"

"Cam, we talked about this!"

At last Quelaag's expression softened. She hugged the twins, pointedly leaving out her husband.

"One month," she said, again leaving to return to the throne room.

" _We'll be done in one month, right?_ " Lex whispered telepathically.

" _You play a dangerous game, little brother._ "

Once his wife was out of sight, he cast a Homeward spell, reappearing at a hidden bonfire inside the sealed room. Returning to his computer chair, he set the children down and quickly punched in a password. There was a faint sound, and the wall split open to reveal a secret elevator.

"Come on, kids, let's go to the lab."

The toddlers perked up when they heard that and quickly toddled their way into the chamber. He pressed a button and the doors closed, sending the room upward and into a hidden hollow above Izalith's ceiling and below Lordran's surface. The natural cave had been carved into a regular shape, and vents had been cut to allow air to pass, hiding its waste heat among that naturally rising from the lava below. Here, the greatest computer infrastructure in Lordran lay hidden – row after row of server bent to the purposes of the Chaos King.

On the far side, closer to another secret entrance, there were a number of terminals. Casting a watchful glance at his children, he hurried to the small group working there. Quelara, Inward, Straid, and Caryll looked up, clearly quite pleased with their work.

"My impatient majesty," Straid chuckled, "a month is more than enough time."

"How close are you, then, give or take?" Lex said, rubbing his chin.

"As close as you are to divorce," Quelara interrupted, grinning.

She locked her computer and rose to hug her niece and nephew, who'd made their way over as quick as their legs could carry them.

"Let's put it this way," she said flatly, "there was never a need for you to hide this. Not to this degree. If you're too busy to watch the kids, then just tell Laag instead of making her worry. You have too much fun with the idea of a secret base."

"The kids love it too-"

"Because they're kids. Boyish charm is one thing, but boy, you're just childish."

"You can discuss your domestic problems later," Straid scoffed. "Do you want this report or not?"

"Yes, absolutely. Let's get this knocked out before Laag calls Arty and finds out I'm not there yet."

"We have most of Old Izalith modeled using memories from all available sources. Continued effort there has poor returns, so we'll try another angle to fill in the gaps. Cryptographic analysis on Quel's notes is complete. There were more layers than we expected. I've compiled a summary and noted which experiments hold immediate interest.

Preliminary analysis of the city using keys from the journal reveals much of the ritual apparati. I will begin work on deconstructing these as soon as possible. I fear our results will woefully incomplete, however. It wasn't just the architecture. All of Izalith was accounted for – every life!

The Bed of Chaos turned the entire city because the Chaos Flame was designed to use the entire city. A tad callous, maybe, but every bit as elegant as I've come to expect."

"And for our own project?"

"Yes," Straid said, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "but would you expect than success from one such as myself? We can easily make New Izalith a worldwide transmitter for one of Caryll's signals. Once a human has visualized the rune, he will be able to use his humanity as fuel for Chaos and become more than a mere man. The runes produce signals of their own, and many of them gathered in one place creates a feedback loop. I believe this produces the 'spiral power' you envisaged.

With this power, serfs will have little trouble rising against their masters. How shrewd. This will destroy a nation from within, while you invade and reap the reward."

Lex shook his head.

"The ideal is not to invade. The people will rise up because they want to. We're just giving them the tool to succeed. Once the old order is out, they'll be more willing to consort with demons."

"It doesn't hurt to be the reason for the revolution's success either."

Lex groaned but nodded.

"Sure, I guess. Just be ready to broadcast within the month."

 _Excavation_

 _A new symbol, unearthed and modified by Caryll, runesmith of Izalith._

" _Excavation" embodies the frenzied spirit of the tomb prospectors who unearthed the secrets of the labyrinth even as they were driven mad._

 _Those who pledge this oath are united by the dead they bear on their backs and grow stronger from the burden. With their strength united, they might break through the cosmos itself._


	4. Imperator-class Titan

The old god squeezed the arm of his throne with such intensity that the marble shattered. It had always been a burden for the great gods to control their strength, to not simply _break_ the pygmies or their tools. Only the ancient black iron, titanite, could bear their power at its fullest. Yet symbols were vital to "shepherding the humans." A grimace bristled the god's tremendous gray beard. So much for giving them enough rope to hang themselves.

The gods should have exterminated the vermin from the start, while they had all gathered to feast on dragon carcasses. Now that the things had scattered into their dark burrows, it was too late. The gods would pay the price for that fool Gwyn's mercy.

Allfather Lloyd rose from his throne of white shod in gold, towering over the pygmies chittering at him like so many insects. His "advisors" - yet they sought only his favor. It was not so easily given as that harlot Gwynevere's. The old god's hatred burned in his gut like a low flame. The least that useless girl could have done was to hold her ignorant, backwoods island. Yet it was the first to fall. The first sign of weakness from the gods.

The Gray God, the God of Order and Caste, strode through the grand cathedral. Murals depicting the "heroism" of his stupid nephew, the usurper King Gwyn, passed over his head. His old eyes could easily catch where Gwyn's own treacherous son had been painted over. Rotten fruit from rotten seed. None of this would have happened if he had not been so foolish as to let the boy Gwyn lead and gain glory in battle, glory enough to overthrow the rightful Lord.

As a mercy, he had been allowed to advise the usurper. Yet the fool gave his own life, and in a manner of speaking, the Gray God had finally taken rule. By cladding himself in the false sanctity of the dead fool, Lloyd could command the wretched pygmies if naught else. The Way of White, from its seat at Gwynnas in distant Thorolund, shackled the Dark through sacred tradition.

For the first time in decades, Allfather Lloyd left the halls which had been constructed as his gilded prison and set foot into the sunlight. "Pontiff, Pontiff," the vermin cried as they tried to stop him. Who could stop a god?

After so long, the natural light prickled on his ashen skin and stung his foggy eyes. Yet still, there was an unexpected sensation at his feet. Ah, the pygmies still protesting. His finger twitched, and a wave of unstoppable, primal force scattered them across the courtyard. A just punishment. This was their fault, after all. They should have fought harder in the past decades. They should have never allowed those small heresies to grow.

The world had been fractured by the Undead Curse. Only those places where the gods yet still shone their light kept order intact. Perhaps even he had been naive in believing the politics of the pygmy lands would remain the same after such an apocalypse. Yet he had not imagined faithful Astora forgoing the divine right of kings. He had not imagined its government of unruly commoners would grow so numb to the gods' power. Most of all, he had not imagined they would choose to side with mad Chaos.

Like the infection it was, the roots of the twisted force of Life spread from that seed of rebellion to neighboring lands. Not even that barbarian island and Gwyn's whore daughter were safe, it seemed. Now, the demons had grown drunk on victory. They thought because they had overthrown some pitiful mountain-man of a god that they could overthrow the very seat of divine power. That they could overthrow Allfather Lloyd, eldest of the gods, who had risen from the gray ash and colorless fog of the dragons' world.

The Gray God tore the pure robes of the Way of White from him, billowing to the ground like the sails of a warship. Beneath his gentle, ecclesiastic garb was armor of gray and silver, segmented plate studded with the unbreakable scales of the everlasting dragons.

There was a tremendous statue there in the center of the yard, depicting the usurper King giving Lloyd what was already his. Only, the artifacts were not replicas. The Allfather threw the icon of Gwyn to the ground and collected his Sword of Law and Shield of Caste. There was no longer any need to pretend to rely on Gwyn's power. After this, the pygmies would worship him alone.

He threw his pontifical crown to the ground. He needed no Crown, no symbol but his strength of arm. The temple guards knew. They had always known what the foolish priesthood could never see. They and the Grey God were of the same Caste. Talismans of lesser gods littered the ground as they revealed long-hidden talismans made from the banners of those who died in holy war. They silently fell in line behind their master as he marched to battle.

The city had been quiet in spite of the situation. Thorolund beyond had fallen swiftly, yet the demon armies had not attacked. In spite of their overwhelming force, they had dared not lay hand on the holy capital. There, they had remained, surrounding it as if to starve the city. They should have known better.

There had been no need to impose martial law. There were no riots or vandalism. The people of the holy capital had gone to pray. Their faith in Gwyn was misplaced, but it made them turn to their Allfather nevertheless. Lloyd had not been so powerful in centuries.

The secular knights of Thorolund, to say nothing of the cleric knights stationed in the city, saw the god and followed. This was no time to cower in wait of a demon attack. The eldest of the gods marched against the heretical powers of Chaos; who would refuse to march in his wake?

Allfather Lloyd proudly descended from the hills of the city with but a step while the brightest of his trained rats took formation behind him. Now that he looked down on the teeming horde beneath him, he saw that it was still more vermin. The demons were few; these were the heretics of Astora, Catarina, and Carim. Like skittering insects before a light, they fled from the presence of such a mighty god, whose footfalls shook the earth.

"Hold!"

The stupid pygmies halted in spite of their instincts. Lloyd recognized that voice, just barely.

"Daughter of Chaos!" he rumbled, his aged voice like sand through an hourglass. "Flee. Else slay your slaves and swear to me. Your perverted Flame is not enough. Mercy is a flaw of my brother's line, of which I possess none."

"Believe me, old Lloyd, you know nothing of perversion."

The god could not find her. He looked one way, then the other, yet saw only pygmies. At long last, he saw one who set before him on horseback. Had the witches grown so feeble that they were no different from the insects they had seduced into demonhood?

The Gray God raised his Sword of Law and leveled it at the figure.

"For the crimes of heresy, sedition, and contempt for the divine, your sentence is summary execution by divine wrath."

A pulse of invisible force exploded from the blade, and the ground erupted.

"Pygmies! Your sentence will be commuted if you should-"

"Do not presume to order my men!"

Ah, it had been a Daughter of Chaos after all. The angry one. The rabid guard dog of Izalith, no less vicious than Gwyn's own hound. There she sat atop her horse, not a hair out of place yet now at the bottom of the pit created by the blast.

"Were it my decision," she growled, "you would suffer dearly before dying, you calcified relic. Your city should be mine. Yet we agreed. The matters of the gods should be decided by the gods. The humans would accept nothing less."

Lloyd thrust his sword again. To acknowledge the words of such a creature would be to undermine his own authority. Accordingly, his own pygmies gave a great cheer.

Subtly at first, smoke began to rise from the pit. Without waiting to see what had happened, the Gray God unleashed his power, tearing the ground to shreds and killing some of the heretics with a spray of earth.

As he drew his sword back, he gravely noticed the tip had begun to melt. Not a moment too soon, then. Only, as he looked back to the ruined land, the witch was still unharmed, black smoke rising from a thin sword.

Impossible. She could not have stopped him with such a blade. There must have been a Chaos trick to it, some heretical magic. He stomped forward and swung the blade with the full of his divine might. A line of force which could have cleft a continent in half broke against a barrier of twisted light.

So that was it. Not the art of a witch. The art of a wretch. The twisted light of Oolacile. He saw the two sorcerers below and made note.

"Your occult arts will not protect you for long," he said, emboldening his pygmies.

"No need. We've waited long enough."

There was a rumbling in the distance.

"We had agreed that the matters of the gods should be settled by the gods. Yet the humans might not accept even that. We needed a symbol to show that we were the righteous ones. My dear husband, unfortunately, went too far."

The rumbling grew closer, one beat after another. It was footsteps. Footsteps which shook the earth. Lloyd was so great in size that his own feet did so as well, but how tremendous was this thing which could be heard so long before being seen?

The Allfather had set out as the day grew to a close. It had been an impetuous act, after hours of listening to his pitiful "advisors" try to suggest he listen to demon demands. By now, the sun was setting, and long shadows fell from the Chaos-ruled west. Yet it wasn't the shadow he saw first.

A peak rose above the horizon, as if a mountain walked toward the holy capital. Yet as it neared, and the earth creaked beneath its footfalls, Lloyd saw something he thought he would never see again.

The familiar skyline of Anor Londo, the usurper Gwyn's capital, rose beneath the setting sun. Lloyd's hatred boiled as his past itself seemed to come for him. His pygmies grew unsure of themselves, for they had seen it in holy books and the murals in the temples.

The city grew nearer, towering over both the god and the army of heretics, who thought the ancient capital of the gods was only a myth.

It kept rising as it neared, until the astounding truth revealed itself. The City of Sunlight had been torn from its foundation. The Keep of Great Lord Gwyn was a fortress once more, set upon the back of a golem of white steel which dwarfed even the Allfather's tremendous height like he dwarfed the pygmies.

It raised a scepter made of so much gold that it could buy an empire and leveled it at Lloyd. In the shadows of the setting sun, a figure in white stood at the front of the cathedral.

"I am the Dark Sun, Gwyndolin! Let the atonement for thy felonies commenceth!"


End file.
